Funeral
by heylove
Summary: You wonder if lying by omission counts against you these days, and you feel a little dead inside. [RLSB]


Spoilers: OotP.

A/N: Reposted and revised. Originally published Sept. 05. And for the record, I loathe FFn for not letting me format this the way I want to.

* * *

It's difficult for you to believe this is real. No; it's been a week, and you're still not convinced. Because it's a joke. Any second Sirius is going to burst through those doors, grinning madly, and with his bark-like laugh he'll call you an old fool and embrace you like the brother you are to him. 

It's absurd. Sirius Black can't really be dead. 

Four days ago found you in St. Mungo's, drugged and disoriented. Your Healer intoned apathetically that you'd collapsed from exhaustion (you hadn't been sleeping) and shock (well, who could blame you?), and had been brought in by Albus Dumbledore. He also mentioned, quite without feeling, that if you planned on eating again, you'd better start out with small meals. Since you hadn't eaten for a week, large portions could make you ill. You remember thinking that the man had a definite way with words as he nodded to you, and did not come back.

His prognosis did not surprise you.

Seven days ago, your whole world fell apart.

You've had a hell of a week. 

They let you leave St. Mungo's yesterday, which is why you're sitting here now, trying (but not really) to concentrate on what the Headmaster is saying. He pauses – not for the first time – and stares intently into your blank eyes. You force a reassuring smile, and he resumes his monologue.

In the back of your mind, you had hoped that the Healers would keep you there for one more day. Searching wildly for a reason to avoid this damned place, you recognized your current state of denial and calmly pushed it aside; Sirius always said you were the only reasonable one of their group, and you have to believe that still holds up. Otherwise, it's denial _and _an identity crisis, and you can only deal with one catastrophe at a time. And, okay, your train of thought is all over the place, but you know that the way to rein it in is by focusing on reality, and that's kind of out of the question.

You've tried not to let on that anything is wrong, which is a fairly ridiculous thing to expect your friends to believe, but you have got years of experience under your belt. So, you're tired, sure. You're exhausted even. You're a werewolf. The bags under your eyes are hardly new. Of course, Albus suspects something, despite your assurances that yes, you're quite well now, thank you. But the others… they confidently tell each other that Lupin has accepted it, that he understands, and that everyone should be so wise, so brave. The first time you heard this, you smiled wryly. You wonder if lying by omission counts against you these days, and you feel a little dead inside.

When you held Harry back, you know your voice broke, and you thanked some unnamed deity that no one seemed to have noticed. You've realized by now, of course, that you clung to Harry as much for his sake as for your own; it was all you could do not to push blindly past him and into the curtain after –

No. Sirius is the reckless one. You're the realist.

The gathering you're at now is the memorial service for him, or the conclusion of it, and he'd have hated it. Speeches were made, condolences given out liberally. Grief was shared, and in a corner of the Great Hall you saw Harry sitting with Ron, his eyes red from his earlier hysterics. It's an emotionally-charged event… although, come to think of it, you haven't cried yet. Which is a funny detail that you'll be careful to avoid examining.

If you'd been in charge, you'd have thrown a bloody great wake, and every single soul in Great Britain would be three sheets to the wind and too hungover in the morning to decide whether to shit or go blind.

There are reporters trolling, of course. Sirius Black, alleged murderer, first ever to break out of Azkaban, dies heroically while fighting the Dark Lord's most loyal followers – and oh, by the way, You Know Who really _is _back. Oops. The wizarding world has decided to try humility on for size, and the media is buzzing, with their Quick Quotes Quills and that disgusting, greedy glint in their eyes, ready to kill for an interview with anything that moves. Pulse optional, you think, as long as they're talking about the disowned heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

They came to you, of course.

You told them what they already knew, what you know they expected to hear – that he was a great man, the most wonderful friend, and that life had dealt him too harsh a hand. The truth is that, a lot of the time, he was an insufferable ass, in that obnoxiously charismatic way. You wanted to tell them to get on the Wireless and tell the world that you once threw a book at his head, which was the precursor to the first time he apologized, which was the precursor to the first time the two of you -

Reasonable man that you are, you fed them empty facts - heard a hundred times before and only half-correct.

You know they suspect an untoward friendship that was just a little more. They won't say it, not at his funeral and not in the same room as Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter, but they want gossip, torrid details of a scandalous love affair; in other words, anything to make _them_ look better by passing the role of _idiot _on to you. They're not alone in this; hell, even Mad Eye's probably got it figured out. It's not exactly a secret that you haven't been with a woman in twenty years, and Albus did send Sirius to you.

From the corner of your eye you see a portly man draped in hideous green tweed approaching your table. Sweaty-faced and stinking of whisky, balding head reflecting the ironic gleam of the sun overhead, he introduces himself as a reporter for the _Prophet_ - as if that lends him any credibility these days. You have to give him some credit when, without preamble, he asks what your relationship with Sirius was. You note with vague amazement that this complete stranger uses Sirius's name as if they'd been close friends. You turn in your seat and recross your legs, eyes finally intense.

"I loved him," you say, and his face is alight with glee. "We all did."


End file.
